


Too Far to Fall

by farfromgraceful



Category: Dean/Castiel - Fandom, Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Multi, Supernatural s.9, s.9
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farfromgraceful/pseuds/farfromgraceful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is dead. Again. But this time Castiel is too human to help. Abbadon and Crowley are too busy tearing the world apart to notice little Sammy Winchester has given up the family business. But eventually Dean's going to get out of Hell, even if he has to drag himself out. Except this time he'll be bringing a little Hell with him. What's Dean going to say when it only took a year for the world he once knew to turn upside down, again. There's a new angel in charge of Heaven; one who Dean knows very well, one he wished he'd known better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Far to Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still writing, so updates might be a little slow. Sorry, guys, I'll do my best!

Dean Winchester’s death had been as bloody and messy as his life had been. Predictably, it had also been because of some misguided attempt to save Sam. “Whoa,” Dean had coughed around the hot blood that was bubbling from his mouth, “Easy there tiger,” he tried to comfort Sam, feeling the need to protect his baby brother even as he lay dying.  
Sam was cradling Dean’s head in his massive hands, trying desperately to make it look like he wasn’t about to cry. “You idiot”, he choked out, “Why do you always have to be the hero?”  
Dean smiled, it was more of a grimace, but it was the thought that counted, “Because I’m Batman.” He could no longer feel his legs, and Dean absently wondered how many people had seen their own liver. He didn’t think it would be many. But then, not many people had been stupid enough to piss of the woman running for Queen of Hell. He could remember the last time he died. It was a lot quicker this. He would have preferred that, but Abbadon had called off her Hellhounds before they could finish the job they started. Abbadon had wanted him to suffer apparently. He could remember her laughing as they tore into his soft flesh, something about his death having “lovely symmetry”. He could see her point. He did die, for the first time anyway, by being torn apart by Hellhounds. It was only fitting he die for the last time the same way.  
“Dammit, Dean”, Sam sobbed, no longer holding back the tears, “This really isn’t the time for jokes.”  
He whimpered, but only quietly, because Dean Winchester certainly did not whimper. He took a ragged breath, “Look, Sammy...”  
But his little brother cut him off, “No. Don’t you “look, Sammy” me. One of the angels will be here any second, and... And they’ll heal you up... and we’ll be kicking ass like normal.”  
Knowing this wasn’t true; Dean decided to humour his brother. “Yeah, well, just in case they’re late,” he had to stop talking to weakly cough up more blood, “Goddammit,” he cursed. “You go find a pretty girl, and have kids, okay, Sammy? We say this... we say this every damn time, and it never happens. But this time I’m serious. Okay. Abbadon won’t touch you while she’s distracted with Crowley.” He sucked in another ragged breath. Dean couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. Not that it was surprising, considering they were probably filling with blood. He could feel it pushing through his chest every time he took another breath.  
Sammy shook his head, “No. No. ‘Cause you’re not gonna die, Dean.” He laughed humourlessly a moment later, “You never got the hang of staying dead for long.”  
Dean huffed out a soft breath, his green eyes crinkling at the corners, the best laugh he could manage. “I guess you’re right. Still...” he sucked in another shaking breath, “it doesn’t matter. You’ll go get your apple-pie life for me though, won’t you?”  
His little brother nodded his head, still refusing to believe his big brother was dying, even though the steadily growing puddle of blood said otherwise. Sammy looked up at the roof of the abandoned warehouse; Dean knew it was a trap. He had known Abbadon had been waiting for him inside, ready to trade Sam’s life for Dean’s. And still he went. Sam threw one last desperate prayer to the heavens. Certainly not expecting an answer, not now that Heaven was empty, but still hoping for a miracle. He heard Dean take another rattling breath; it was too wet, too forced to anything but one of his last.  
“Sammy?” Dean asked, in a voice much smaller than any one he had used since a child.  
Sam looked down at him again, “Dean?”  
There was no reply.  
“Dean?” Sam asked, more frantically now. His fingers clumsily felt for his big brother’s pulse. But he couldn’t feel it any longer.  
The fire in Dean’s eyes had gone out.  
This time for good.

 

When Dean died he knew exactly where he was going. So when he opened his eyes to find himself in Hell, he wasn’t at all surprised. During his brief stint as King of Hell, Crowley had made a few changes. Okay, a lot. Dean almost didn’t recognise it as the place where he had been tortured, and became a torturer himself, six years ago. The one thing had hadn’t changed were the screams. Despite its slightly cleaner and clinical design, the air of Hell was still filled with the smell of blood and the sound of screaming. Dean knew it was only a matter of moments before his punishment was going to begin, and only a couple of centuries before his humanity was destroyed, leaving him nothing more than one the monsters he used to hunt for a living. The lock on his cell rattled, and Dean backed against the cold, metal wall of his tiny cell. He knew it would do nothing, there was no escape, but still... he had to try. The door opened with a pained creak, and he almost let out a sigh of relief, because Castiel walked in. Castiel’s dirty trenchcoat was flapping around his legs, his hair just as messy as it had always been, and his suit just as spotless. But Dean remembered Castiel had lost his grace, he was no longer an angel, and Hell was famous for giving its guests the personalised experience. “Castiel” smiled, a silver blade slipping down from the sleeve of his trenchcoat. “Hello, Dean”.

 

Sam had considered holding a funeral for Dean. He had thought about it, but he realised there was nobody to attend it. There was nobody, except him, who had known Dean, left alive. Castiel had been missing for months, and Sam assumed he had perished in the fall. Charlie was in hiding again, and despite his best efforts to find her, the computer genius had hidden her trail perfectly. Instead, Sam found himself a tiny town, in the middle of nowhere, and bought a house. He ran a website that helped hunters looking for reliable info, he almost completely rebuilt his tiny house in order to make it demon, and angel, proof, and he lived alone. The whole town thought he was some kind of religious freak and that made it considerably more difficult for him to find that “apple pie life” Dean was so desperate for him to have. He was angry, he was sad, he wanted to kill Abbadon. But... he had promised to leave her alone. Anyway, the last time he went after the person who had killed his brother, Sam had ended up addicted to demon blood and starting the Apocalypse by accident. For the first six months Sam lived in a constant state of alcohol induced insensibility. If it had worked for Bobby, and for Dean, then staying constantly drunk would work for him too. It did. He considered offering himself up as a vessel for one of the many fallen angels. But he realised he was still Lucifer’s vessel, and the angels probably shouldn't get their hands on him. That narrowed down his options considerably. If he couldn't drink himself into forgetfulness, and he couldn't hide behind the grace of an angel, Sam figured he would have to hide behind his books. He had always done that, even as a kid. Burying himself in study, even if it was totally unrelated to what he actually needed to know. His tiny house eventually needed to be extended, an extra room added to make room for his steadily growing library. His collection of rare scrolls, and books, and journals, and bibles, and videos was starting to rival even what Bobby had collected. He knew there would be more in the Men of Letters bunker, but he wasn't going back there. Eventually Sam settled into a routine of sorts; wake up, coffee, translate whatever he was currently working on, alcohol, more translating, coffee, typing the translated document on his laptop, scanning every individual page to be uploaded to his website, more coffee, answer in the influx of confused emails he receives from hunters attempting to deal with the fallout of a worldwide campaign for ruler of Hell, upload the translated and annotated copy of whatever book/ scroll/ journal he had just finished, more alcohol, possibly some dinner, start next book, before falling asleep at his desk and catching three hours if he was lucky. It wasn't an “apple pie life” but it was the best he could do.

 

At first the demon’s had been at a lose. Their torture seemed to have no effect on the eldest Winchester. He just laughed at them. It was a wet, breathy, pain-filled laugh, but never a scream or plea for mercy. The first time Dean had been to Hell it had been relatively easy to break him. Just a few decades with Alistair and Dean had been broken, and had been torturing souls like the best of them. But Alistair was dead, and a few years up top had changed Dean. The demons tried asking Abbadon; she just told them to try harder. For a few months they kept doing the same thing; alternating between using Sam and Castiel’s images to torture Dean. A couple of times they tried using John’s, but Dean just laughed harder. Finally, they turned to their old king. Crowley was a shadow of what he had once been, but an addiction to humanity had only made him grow an even greater appreciation for the infliction of pain. He had smiled when the demons had sought him out, leaning back in his desk chair, Crowley poured himself a drink. “Don’t torture him. He’s such a self-sacrificing idiot he probably gets a kick out of it. Get him to torture the people he loves.” It was such a simple idea. It was brilliant. Diving back into the torture game the demons did just that.  
The loud screams of Sam Winchester echoed through Dean’s cell, accompanied by the quiet drip of blood. Sometimes it would be Castiel’s voice begging, but it was never Dean’s. He had been tearing apart the people he loved for a good century now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knew it had only been eleven months since his death, well, eleven months up top anyway. The torture no longer bothered him though. At first, every scream, every broken plea for help that tore itself from Sam’s mouth would rip at Dean’s heart in ways he didn't even know were possible. But now...now it was fun. Obviously, some of his tried and tested techniques, from the first time he had been to Hell, made a few comebacks, but those got boring, and soon Dean was going out of his way to be original. Every new and creative way he could wring another scream from Castiel’s shredded vocal cords made Dean shiver in pleasure. Every time he peeled the skin from Sam’s face he would laugh in delight. He knew it was wrong, but being wrong felt so damn good. Dean knew he should care, he knew there was something fundamentally wrong with him when he found his baby brother’s pain amusing, but he just couldn’t bring himself to give a damn. He liked feeling powerful, he liked being able to slice into Castiel and tear every one of those beautiful black feathers from his back one by one. Then one day he stood up, Castiel was lying on the cold, metal floor of Dean’s cell; his feathers strewn across the room, sticking to the floor and the walls that were coated in his blood. Sam was tied to a chair; the small knife Dean had been using to slowly carve into his stomach sticking out of his eye. He felt a rush of darkness swell inside him, a sense of pride at the masterpiece he had created... and he let it out. His green eyes flicking to an inky black that spilled over his lashes and made him look like some kind of feral animal. Dean smiled, running his tongue over his teeth he smiled as the door to his cell swung open.

 

Castiel had been a human for quite some time. He had, at first, managed to find the Men of Letters bunker all by himself, but he had found it empty. Next he tried to look for Charlie; the human girl Dean had mentioned helping them from time to time; she was nowhere to be found. Sam was missing too and Castiel feared the worst for his enormous friend. He had lived on the streets for eleven months, cut off from society in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. Preoccupied by keeping off the other angel’s radars and searching for a way to restore Heaven, Castiel had fallen out of the loop. He no longer knew what was happening with Metatron, and the only idea he had of what the other angels were doing were a couple of bad omens and suspicious deaths. Despite this, Castiel did know that Dean had died. It had been on the news. Obviously, authorities were baffled; all records showed that Dean Winchester had died years ago. But Castiel knew better, and this time he was powerless to help. He had tried fighting, that had failed him, he had tried to gain power in order to fix the wrongs of Heaven, that plan had also failed him. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Castiel could no longer fight, even if he had wanted to; a year of humanity and living on the streets had left him weak and hungry. The thought of being powerful was almost hilarious; he didn’t feel powerful when he was lying in a thin sleeping bag in the storage room of some Gas’n’Sip. All of Castiel’s searches had yielded nothing but bitter disappointment. He had fought so hard, for so long, that he had nothing left to give. It was freezing cold; the wet rain assaulting him as he lay slumped down an alleyway. It was the driest place he could find to stay the night, but he was hungry. And cold. And tired. But mostly hungry. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, but for the last couple of hours Castiel had had trouble remembering where he was. One moment he was in a wet alley, a damp sleeping-bag pulled up to his chin in a desperate attempt to fight off the cold, the next he was an angel again; looking down on Earth with curiosity and concern. His consciousness had been fading in and out for a while now, and Castiel wondered if it would be easier just to go to sleep. Dean had stopped fighting. Maybe it was time for him to do the same. It was almost pleasant; letting go. Like a whole weight just... lifting off your shoulders. But apparently someone had other plans for Castiel.  
“You have learnt your lesson, Castiel.”  
His blue eyes flickering open weakly, Castiel looked up. “Father?” he questioned, “I knew you weren’t dead. They said you were, but...”  
“Why do you think I resurrected you all those times? For fun? You were the only angel who, despite having your moments, never once believed I would abandon you.”  
“Have you come to help me, Father?” Castiel asked, wanting nothing more than a warm meal and a bed to sleep in.  
“Help you? Goodness, no. I’ve come to give you a promotion, my little warrior. Best promotion out there.”  
Castiel felt the familiar hum of his grace fill his body, loving the warmth it brought to his freezing fingers and toes, and the hunger it alleviated. Standing up, for the first time in a few weeks, Castiel spread his, once again beautiful, wings out behind him. He ran his vessel’s fingers along a few of the silky feathers. His grace, practically humming with happiness and contentment, glowed a soft blue colour. “Thank you, Father”, Castiel murmured, “How can I repay you?”  
“You’re welcome, Castiel. But the only way you can repay me is by doing your job. I’m leaving again, this time for good. After all the work I put into this world, I want to be able to enjoy it. I am leaving you in charge, Castiel. All power over Heaven, and Earth, has been transferred to you.”  
Castiel frowned, worry suddenly very obvious in his eyes, and in the flickers of dark blue that punctured his grace, “Bu-but I’ve... hurt... I’ve been... I have done horrible things, Father. Why me? There must be... be someone more worthy... more capable... “  
“This is why I have chosen you, Castiel. You have done wrong, and you have strived to right those wrongs ever since. You have lost your grace, and found yourself worthy of humanity. You have survived, and never given up; despite everything this world has thrown at you. You are worthy, Castiel. Now go, Metatron fancies himself a God... show him what being a God really is.”  
Castiel marched into Heaven, for the first time in a long time, with his head held high. Heaven was too empty, too quiet, and even the souls that resided there looked uncomfortable with the change. It was easy, with his returned grace, to find the Garden. He knew that’s where Metatron would be.  
“Castiel,” Metatron questioned, when he noticed he was no longer the only angel in Heaven, “How did you get here?” He had made sure to take every last drop of Castiel’s grace. Not that the spell he had used to throw all the angels from Heaven needed all of that grace, it only required a tiny drop, but for insurance. Metatron knew enough about Castiel to know that he wouldn’t go down without a fight, one that Metatron knew he couldn’t win. And yet, here Castiel was. “Where did you get that grace from, Castiel?”  
“I had a visit from our Father, Metatron.” he replied, in a tone that implied what he was saying was obvious. “He is not happy with you.”  
“I don’t believe that for a second, Castiel.” retorted Metatron with a smile, his small angle blade appearing in his hand. “He’s gone. Anyway, God gave me all this knowledge. Why would he give this power to me and then be unhappy with my using it? It doesn’t make sense and you know it.”  
Castiel let out a sigh, who would ever know why his Father did the things he did? “Maybe,” he began, taking a step closer to the false God, “Maybe he knew you loved stories, so he told you the best one he knew.”  
The look one Metatron’s face was one of pure shock, “You lie, Castiel. You lie to save yourself and to break my faith. But it will not work, not on me.” The blade in his hand shook, almost with the same intensity that his voice did.  
“I do not wish to harm you, brother, but I will do what I must to restore the balance in this world,” Castiel warned, he had not yet drawn his weapon. He had hoped that Metatron would see reason, but this was becoming more, and more, unlikely. “Step down as ruler of Heaven and Earth; this is no longer your burden to bear.”  
Metatron just laughed, “And I suppose you will be the one to bear it from now on?”  
Castiel nodded solemnly, “Our Father has left, for good now, and he has left me to fix this broken world of his.”  
“All lies, brother. All lies. I will have to kill you now. Lying is a sin, after all”.  
With an expansive sigh, Castiel drew his weapon. A metre long sword made from the same impossibly fluid metal that Metatron’s was. Blue flame licked up the shining metal blade, flickering and almost impossibly alive. He was surprised, but quickly masked it; there would be time to wonder about that later. “I had hoped to avoid this,” Castiel told his brother truthfully, “But this cannot continue.” He took another step forward and, holding his new sword in both hands, Castiel swung the weapon towards his brother. Metatron attempted to defend himself, but Castiel’s burning sword sliced clean through the other blade, severing both Metatron’s sword, and his head. Metatron’s head rolled across the floor, staring up at nothing with glassy eyes for a moment, before exploding in a burst of grace and light.  
His wings would remain burnt into the ground of the Garden for eternity, to serve as a reminder of the darkest days Heaven had ever seen. And as a tribute to the angels who did not survive the fall Metatron forced upon them.

 

  
At first, demons started dropping dead. Then their bosses started dropping dead. Dean Winchester worked his way up the food chain of Hell, leaving a trail of dead bodies behind him. His name was whispered behind backs and in filthy bars. What would Abbadon say if they knew Dean Winchester was going after her? Did she already know? What about Crowley? They had to know their days were numbered by now? Dean’s most difficult choice was who to kill first. Crowley had screwed him over more times than he could count, he was weak and addicted to humanity after the failed attempt to close the gates of Hell, and he was probably the biggest threat to Sammy. But Abbadon... she deserved a long, painful death. Dean wanted her to be afraid. And that’s what sealed Crowley’s fate. Dean would save Abbadon for last, by the time she found out about Crowley’s death she would know hers would be the next to follow.  
Crowley had retreated to a mansion on the outskirts of Florida, looking to not only avoid Abbadon’s followers, but to hide from the angels that were now free to visit Earth whenever they wanted. So far Castiel hadn’t been able to find him, and he was hoping that it would stay that way. He was scared, in a way he hadn’t been for centuries. As much as humanity gave him a high, it also came with side-effects; sentiment, guilt, depression, paranoia, and fear. Alone in an empty house, consumed by the emotions he hated and drunk, is the way Dean found Crowley.  
“Hey, Crowley,” Dean greeted, a wide smirk plastered across his freckled face. “How’re you doing?”  
“I had heard rumours, of course, that you had managed to get your old meatsuit back, but how did you swing that one? I doubt Abbadon’s willing to do you a solid and the God Squad’s under renovations at this current time,” he replied, staring into his glass and swirling the remnants of his drink in lazy circles.  
Dean laughed cruelly, “Oh, that bitch couldn’t get me my body back if she tried. She doesn’t have the juice. Luckily, I do.” Crowley was too drunk to stand, so Dean drew up a chair opposite the former King of Hell. “Let me tell you a bedtime story, old man. Once upon a time, there was a guy so absolutely awesome that a heap of bad shit happened to him. Then this awesome guy died, and he got pulled out of Hell by an angel, and to have that happen, the angel had to hold that awesome guy’s soul inside its grace. The interesting bit is, a bit of that grace got stuck to that awesome guy’s soul. Now, that awesome guy died again, and he went to Hell, only this time there was nobody to pull him out, so he became a demon. What nobody else knew, is that if you get a righteous soul, add a bit of angel juice, and turn it dark-side, then you get serious power.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, “It would be like comparing a AA battery to a nuclear reactor.” Dean smiled, “You and Abbadon are the AA batteries, if it wasn’t obvious”, he clarified.  
“So you’re a nuclear reactor now, Dean-o?” Crowley chuckled, “You know they’re prone to meltdowns? Sounds dangerous”.  
“Haven’t you heard the news, Crowley?” Dean asked, leaning closer to the fallen King in mock sympathy, “I am dangerous.” He could see the undiluted fear ripple through Crowley’s dark eyes a moment before Dean’s blade was driven through his chest. He seemed to spark a blood red colour from within, like a lightbulb short circuiting, then he slumped forward. Dean dragged his limp body down the stairs, not because it was heavy, but because it was fun to hear Crowley’s head hit each stair with a hollow thunk. Humming to himself contently, Dean stacked some of Crowley’s furniture on the front lawn, he then tied Crowley’s limp body to a throne-like chair, fashioned a wonky crown from the newspaper he found on the front step, and set the whole thing on fire with a snap of his fingers. Well, Dean thought, as he swaggered down the empty street, that was satisfying.

 

  
The first thing Castiel did as the new leader of Heaven was to open the gates once again and call his brothers, and sisters, home. At first they had all been, understandingly, wary. The last time Castiel had taken control of Heaven it had ended badly for everyone. But this time it was different. One look at Castiel’s flaming silver sword and they all believed him. Also, the speech he gave them, individually, upon their return helped a lot.  
“I am not the new God,” he told every surviving angel, “There is nobody capable of being our Father. But I intend to honour our Father’s wishes, and to bring the luxuries that humanity has to Heaven.” This part always seemed to confuse the angels, they didn’t understand why angels would need luxuries, they had orders. “Free will is something everyone, even angels, should have the right to. Should you wish to visit Earth outside of your duties, you can. Should you oppose your orders, you can. I will not force you to do anything you don’t want to. For obvious reasons, we must continue our work in Heaven, caring for the souls and saving the ones wrongly damned, and our work on Earth, maintaining the vessel’s bloodlines and protecting humanity from demonkind. But I will ask you to do only what you believe is right. Your ideas and concerns will be able to be brought up with me directly, to avoid the corruption of the past.”  
After feeling abandoned and unwanted for so long, many angels were just happy to have a leader who cared for them. Castiel’s honesty, and sincerity, shone through every word, and soon Heaven was, for the first time in forever, running smoothly. The surviving archangels were not impressed, as eldest they thought they should be the ones to rule Heaven and Earth. But even they couldn’t deny Castiel was a good and fair leader, his flaming sword would have defeated even them, and they enjoyed their newfound freedom. Castiel knew the remaining archangels would be a problem, they were the ones who had started the fighting in the first place, but after giving them specific jobs to do, he realised they only wanted a purpose. The lower angels reported to the archangels, and the archangels reported to Castiel. True to his word, anyone could come to Castiel with whatever they wanted to be met with an open mind and an open heart.  
Once Heaven was in order, Castiel’s next problem was Earth. Ravaged by the fallen angels, and further torn apart by power hungry demons, suffering was to be found everywhere. He assembled a small team of volunteers, angels who had grown close to their vessel’s families while in hiding, and angels who simply wished to help, who would go to Earth to stop the fighting. They’re orders were simple; kill nobody, but take them straight to Castiel.

 

  
Abbadon had to be getting worried by now. Dean had been planning how to kill her for a long time and he needed her to be scared, or at least mildly worried, for his plans to bring him any satisfaction. Things had gotten considerably harder though. He had noticed that more and more angels were walking the Earth, when he had clawed his way out of Hell there had been hardly any around. He had just assumed they’d either driven themselves to extinction or, more likely, found a way to reopen Heaven. But the amount he had to avoid now was getting ridiculous. Dean was just finishing up digging a grave when the angels had found him. Honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t been intercepted sooner, but he supposed they had needed to sort their own shit out before they even worried about Earth’s. “Good evening,” he greeted the two angels that had appeared in the cemetery, “one moment, boys, gotta toast this bitch first, then I’ll deal with you.”  
“You are hunting”, one of the angels commented unnecessarily, the way it made the statement like a question sent an uncomfortable feeling through Dean. His best friend used to do that.  
He smiled, using his tried and tested method of concealing his emotions, “Somebody’s got to gank her. She was killing off kids.” Dean snapped his fingers and the open grave caught on fire, he held his hands over it, enjoying the warmth it brought to them. “You wanted to talk?”  
“We have orders to bring any demons we find walking the Earth in for questioning,” the angel explained.  
Dean snorted, “Is that code for torture? Because, last time I checked, the God squad just smote demons and got on with destroying the world.”  
The angel sighed, an uncharacteristic show of emotion that startled Dean into paying attention, “New orders, new job, and new leader. Everything has changed upstairs.” Then he stepped forward, his companion mirroring his movements and grabbed Dean’s shoulder. In a split second, Dean found himself in a very familiar place.  
“Hold up,” he demanded, turning to see the angels walk out the door, “Are we at Bobby Singer’s?” The angels didn’t respond. They simply shut the heavy iron door behind them with a solid thunk. Great, just great, Dean thought to himself, as he stretched back against the chair in the corner, he was in Bobby- freakin’-Singer’s panic room. A place he knew very well he wasn’t going to escape from any time soon. Dean frowned, he didn’t like being trapped in small places, it reminded him too much of Hell. Which, after a while had been fun, but he could still remember when it hadn’t been. Before he’d learnt to see the beauty in pain, and find the fun in pulling screams from the people he once loved. He shuddered, allowing his eyes to flick to their natural black he passed the time by flicking them between green and black. Green, black, green, black, green, black, green... But eventually even that got boring, he pulled out his blade, surprised the angels hadn’t taken it from him when they grabbed him. Twirling it around his fingers deftly, Dean stared at the Devil’s Trap built into the ceiling and laughed, like that could contain him. He heard the bolt on the heavy door turn, and Dean sat up a little straighter, holding his blade down by his side just in case “questioning” really was code for torture. But as the door opened, the sarcastic comment Dean was about to make died on his tongue, and he couldn’t hold back a small gasp. No, no, no, Dean repeated in his mind, he was out of Hell. He was out! Why, why, did this have to happen again?  
“Dean?” Castiel breathed, frozen just outside the door. “I- I asked them to bring... You were dead.”  
“So were you,” Dean accused, taking a step away from the angel. “I did what you wanted, I got out, it was over”, he spat, “You guys angry I killed the King?”Castiel stepped inside the room, but froze as Dean’s eyes flicked black, “You guys outdid yourselves this time, you look almost exactly like Cas”.  
“What do you mean “almost”? I am Castiel, Dean”, he asked, trying to ignore the inky darkness that poured from where Castiel used to be able to see Dean’s soul. “How did you... but, you are a demon? That takes centuries?”  
Dean growled, “That was kinda your fault. Making me... What you made me do sped up the process. Also, do you honestly think I would believe two angels finding me, not killing me, and then taking me to Bobby Singer’s house, and that Castiel, who is human, and dean, is going to question me? I lost my humanity, not my sanity.”  
Castiel frowned, and tilted his head to the side. Dean believed he was back in Hell? “I am Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord, and the Angel of Thursday. I was human, and almost did die, but my Father saved me. What do you mean, “What you made me do sped up the process?” what did the demons make you do in Hell, Dean?”  
“Like you don’t know,” spat Dean, “You sons of bitches made me torture Sam and Cas, because you couldn’t break me!”  
Taking another step towards the hunter who was once his best friend, Castiel wrung his hands anxiously, “I am truly sorry for what they did to you, Dean. I am endeavouring to put an end to all of this suffering, but it is proving harder than what I first thought.”  
“Don’t you come near me. After I got out of that cell, I didn’t go up... I went down. Deeper and deeper in to Hell I went, until I had picked up some pretty handy skills to take topside,” Dean held up his blade. Which upon closer inspection, appeared to be an angle blade, a mixture of enochian and demonic symbols wove up the blade, “There isn’t a thing on this Earth that this baby can’t kill. Screw Ruby’s knife, this one here will kill way more than just a demon.”  
“Where did you get that?” Castiel whispered, he would have no choice but to kill Dean if he had killed an angel. “Dean, where did you get that?”  
“I picked it off a dead angel. There are a lot of them topside”, he frowned, “I thought you’d know that.”  
“You are not in Hell, Dean. I am not dead, I never was,” Castiel sighed.  
“Prove it. Prove to me you really are Castiel, and I won’t finger paint with your blood just for pretending to be him”.  
Castiel snapped his fingers; having supercharged grace was a bonus he hadn’t expected when he had taken responsibility for Heaven. Bobby’s panic room disappeared and Dean found himself on the edge of a lake. “This is the lake by which I found you the first time I entered you dreams. I was going to give you information regarding the impending Apocalypse, but was prevented from doing so by my brothers. You visited this lake with your brother when you were eleven.”  
Dean just stared at the angel opposite him, his eyes back to their old green, “Cas?” he asked, in a voice that was so soft it surprised even him. He hadn’t expected to have emotions after becoming a demon. Dean had thought he would just want to kill everything, but when he had fought his way out of Hell, and crawled back into his body, he had been pleasantly surprised to realise he retained his... Dean-ness. “Goddammit, Cas”. He slipped his blade back into the waistband of his faded jeans.  
“Did they really make you torture me in Hell, Dean?”  
He nodded. “Yeah, they tried the old fashioned way, but I kept laughing at them. Guess it pissed them off...”  
“Did you really kill Crowley?”  
That made Dean smiled, “Yeah. It was awesome. Do you like what I did with the crown?” He laughed a little, “That was a stroke of genius.”  
“Hilarious, Dean,” Castiel stated, not at all impressed by Dean’s sense of humour.  
“Is that a note of sarcasm I detect, Cas?”  
Castiel did not believe that comment deserved a response.  
“Are you God now, Cas?” Dean asked, not enjoying the silence, or the fact that, despite not being in Hell, he was yet to be “questioned”.  
“I am not God. But I have taken over responsibility for Heaven and Earth,” Castiel replied.  
“If you’re going to kill me, can you wait until I kill Abbadon? She’s still after Sammy, she’s killing people all the time, and she’s a total bitch who set her Hellhounds on me.”  
This surprised Cas, and he fluttered his wings in shock, “You’re trying to kill Abbadon? She is a Knight of Hell? You are no match for her.”  
“Oh God, Cas. Seriously, I’m a little more powerful than I look. I explain it to you the way I did for Crowley; you get a righteous soul that has come in contact with the grace of an angel, turn it dark side, and you get a nuclear reactor”.  
Castiel shook his head, “I don’t understand those references, but you are more powerful because of coming in contact with grace and being Micheal’s vessel? And you believe you can take on Abbadon, and win?”  
“Yes”, Dean replied simply.  
“Okay,” Castiel nodded.  
“Okay?” echoed Dean disbelievingly, expecting Cas to put up more of a fight.  
“Yes. Go defeat Abbadon, she would destroy any angels I send after her and the archangels are too smart to try. When you have defeated her report back to me... We will have to figure out what to do with Hell”  
Dean’s eyes flicked black again, “I won’t “report back”, you have no control over Hell. I will kill Abbadon because it’s the right thing to do, and she deserves it, but not because I’m ordered to.”  
Cas took a step back, “I wouldn’t expect you to do anything different, Dean. I simply meant we should talk together some time, and we cannot do so while you are busy.”  
“Sure,” Dean replied, his eyes flicking green once more, shooting Cas a grin. “Just had to make sure you knew why I was doing this.”


End file.
